


Misunderstandings

by Phasewalker (mehenisms)



Series: Rising Light [1]
Category: Destiny (Video Game)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/F, Gen, Other, Pre-Relationship, Wing AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 14:58:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6663313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehenisms/pseuds/Phasewalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ikora Rey reminisces on her best friend's tragic past, and how she worked (and continues to) in order to better Eris' health post-Hellmouth. </p><p>Three times Ikora and Eris thought they misunderstood one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Past

Ikora couldn’t think of another person in the Tower who didn’t think Eris Morn was a lost cause. She was almost ready to consider it herself.

Despite the Warlock’s best care and most sensitive teachings, Eris could not – or _would_ not – pick up on certain habits that would not only make her everyday life easier, but also allow her to at least _attempt_ to assimilate into Tower culture once again. Not that she needed to, of course. If Eris considered herself apart from the Tower and its Guardians after what had happened to her, well, she wouldn’t be the first to make that decision. Such things birthed the Iron Banner and all its Lords, after all, and such things allowed Eris to come and go at will to serve the purpose of the Hidden. Perhaps it was a good thing, then, that she decided she did not “belong among the Light” anymore.

Gentleness was the hallmark of Ikora Rey when it came to her dark friend regardless of this. It had been quite some time since she’d returned from the Hellmouth as a thin, battered, and entirely featherless husk of who she used to be – nutrition wasn’t a high priority over those five long years, and Ikora understood it. Survival was paramount above all else.

Knowing that Eris consumed products of the Hive for her time in the Pit did nothing to settle Ikora’s long-term fears for the former Hunter, however. Getting Eris to acknowledge and absolve her of these apprehensions was also unsuccessful. Little appealed to Eris but wormspore, even now, along with choice other, _realer_ foods that resembled the stuff in texture and, Ikora assumed, _flavor_ …whatever that may (or may not) be. 

The wormspore did not help Eris regrow her feathers, though, and while Eris did not seem to care that her once-pretty little wings were crooked and bent and entirely _naked_ , Ikora did. The trauma of the Hellmouth was enough suffering; Eris would surely suffer further socially whether she was fully fledged or not, but even Guardians who lost their feathers had the decency to at least tuck away their wings in public.

Most did so out of shame; to be grounded was a terrible curse for a Lightbearer. Even Exos had created limbs to mimic those that organic species were born with. Wings were a status symbol, a cultural icon; to be stripped of flight was to be worthless in the eyes of many, and especially in the eyes of Guardians. The skies above the Cosmodrome now gave birth to as many great warriors as did the stars early on, when they were just venturing to the Moon again. If feeling the kiss of the wind over one's feathers was an invitation to freedom, then flight was the key to one's earthly shackles. It was an invitation to return to the homely skies, and eventually, the cosmos.

So for Eris to be so casual in allowing her twisted wings to flop awkwardly behind her was disturbing to Ikora, not because she cared about the social notions of it, but because it seemed to be a symbol of Eris’ defeat. They did not drag along the ground – in thinking back to when she knew Eris before the Hellmouth, Ikora could not recall Eris having feathers long enough to touch the ground, even if she lowered them to her sides and let them hang by her arms – but the flesh was in stark contrast to the rest of her: An almost glowing pale color, stretched across thin bones and set on a backdrop of her dark clothes – the black and brown fabrics she draped over herself, tucked under leather armor, and referred to as such, anyway. Ikora did not mind her friend’s seemingly odd and off-putting “fashion.” She had more important things to ponder in her free time.

Thankfully, pondering these more important things had yielded decent results over the last few years. Getting Eris back into good health had been high on Ikora’s priority list from the day she had returned from the Hellmouth, and only rose in importance when she’d signed on with the Hidden. It had grown personal with time, however – the two had become rather fond of each other in working together. Fond enough that the phrase “best friends” was hardly an accurate descriptor for their relationship – but it was one that Eris herself had used in the past, so it was what they stuck with. Neither woman seemed to see a need for such labels, more often than not. They were what they were, and that was all.

And what they were seemed to transcend certain social boundaries. The phrase “birds of a feather flock together” was pressed upon each and every person in the Tower, Guardian and civilian alike, though it was not enforced in any sense of the word. There were certain social sanctions that could befall those who strayed too far from their given grouping, though – unless they proved somehow that such sanctions were beneath them. Ikora was a fine example of this.

One would think that with a reputation like hers, Ikora Rey would belong to a noble group of hunting birds – that she would be a raptor of some kind, a mighty bird of prey. The records she set in the Crucible were still untouched to this day, and certainly that was befitting of an eagle or hawk, always ready to swoop in and take down prey and competition alike in great aerial displays of power.

But no, Ikora Rey was none of those things. She was the reigning Crucible Champion, certainly, but she was no frightening eagle, nor cunning hawk: she was a hummingbird, with shimmering grey-brown wings and sun-kissed orange highlights attributed to the [Orange-Throated Sunangel](https://www.hbw.com/sites/default/files/styles/ibc_1k/public/ibc/p/dsc_4571.jpg?itok=5vdCc8pR). A very pretty bird, certainly, and very fitting when aesthetics were in mind, but it was not designed for battle. She was made for hovering, for control, and for gathering resources, not dogfights or shotgun-wielding. She was not made for the front lines. And yet she defied all of those assumptions, defied what many would say is her “biology” in favor of becoming exactly what she was told she could not be – a warrior worthy of respect, perhaps even more so because of her species.

Eris Morn on the other hand, when fledged, displayed a dull olive plumage spattered with dark dots as though at her birth her genes had tossed black paint at a canvas. Ikora remembered her wings being far more vibrant, once upon a time – a brilliant grass green that just barely shined in the sunlight. Now, after the Hellmouth, Eris’ plumage was darker than before. Still green, and noticeably so, but dark enough that without any direct source of light her feathers almost appeared to be a muddy brown or black. Even in lit rooms, though, only the edges of each stubby feather shined a true green color; when she held her wings close to her body it was hard to distinguish their true hue. Ikora had seen [Catbirds](http://houstonzoocoupons.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/bird.jpg) before, even other green ones, but none of them had looked like Eris before the Hellmouth – and she was certain [none did now](http://67.media.tumblr.com/e4aed33dd0afe14309613fc1e994eec2/tumblr_o9texl843x1rq41dgo2_1280.png).

It did not diminish her friend’s beauty though, as subjective as that may have been in the eyes of many. Ikora had always thought her pretty, but something about her now was different. Sad, maybe, but beautiful. 

Eris always held her wings blindly, either entirely flat to her back, leaving faintly rounded humps over her shoulder blades, or stretched out far to either side (as far as her short wings could reach, anyway) as a sort of guide. She could not see with her eyes anymore; ever since she had begun to grow flight feathers again she had used them for a wider sense of touch.

It unnerved many Guardians when Eris would walk by them with her wings outstretched. Many shied away from her for reasons that were bigoted and cruel, but many others would not, and felt her stiff feathers lightly brush against them. This drove some to anxiety – they did not want Eris to touch them, and particularly not with her wings.

Her blatant disregard for social norms led Eris to also disregard more taboo subjects: To touch another with your wings was a great gesture of comfort or acknowledgement…one typically reserved for intimate pairs.

Perhaps it would not surprise anyone then that Ikora Rey flinched when Eris stalked around behind her to stand by her side at the war table, dragging the tip of one wing along the back of Ikora’s folded ones as she slipped past, just to make sure there was enough space between them to move comfortably.

Or perhaps it _would_ , because Ikora Rey was known to be close to the strange enigma of a woman – close enough that certain limits no longer seemed to apply.

She did, though. She flinched because it felt like someone dragging their finger over her wings, their touch cold yet soft. Her expression did not change much; she remained as neutral as ever, although she did blink in surprise and shifted her weight in subconscious discomfort. The other Vanguard were watching, and while there was nothing to see – the two were _best friends_ , after all – sometimes Ikora could not bear the idea of judgmental glances, especially from her teammates.

Eris was more important to her than anything anyone might have to say, of course, but she could always sense when all eyes were on the two of them. Telepathy was both a blessing and curse; as much as she loved and proudly wore the titles of Vanguard and Champion, she no longer favored the spotlight as she once had in her youth.

None of the Vanguard bothered to look at either woman, though, and instead kept on with their preoccupations of mission reports and map-making.

Ikora found herself surprised that no one around her could hear the beating of her heart, ready to burst through her chest.

Why was she having a stress reaction? A glance to her right told her that Eris had folded up her wings, seemingly content with her standing position next to Ikora as she stared blindly down at the table, her expression blank.

The silence in the room dragged on and on. The Vanguard were not constantly chattering throughout the day and night, as many seemed to think; while they ( _usually_ ) enjoyed each other’s company, they did not need words to feel comfortable in the Hall alongside each other. 

But Ikora suddenly did.

A moment’s hesitation led her to cast another glance down toward her small friend, who still stood by her side as an immovable presence, glued to the spot. Another minute went by and Ikora studied her, looking her over from head to toe and finding nothing out of place. One more, and she finally spoke.

“…Something to say, Eris?”

Eris looked in her direction with a slow blink, her third eye lagging a fraction of a second behind. Cayde and Zavala both raised their heads to watch the Hunter's reaction; by the look the latter wore he had not even realized she’d arrived only moments before.

“No.”

“Okay.”

And that was that. Ikora felt some relief in the lonely syllable as it fell quietly from Eris’ lips, though she could not place why. Her comrades returned their scrutiny to their work, as did she. A few minutes passed, and her heart rate had slowed again; she no longer had to focus on steadying her breathing. She still wasn’t entirely aware of why she’d felt a flutter of anxiety. It was hard to pin down.

She would feel it again some thirty minutes later as Eris brushed past her to leave, closer this time. As she crept around Ikora, one outstretched wing gave way as they came into contact, folding against Ikora's back just enough to allow Eris passage without catching on Ikora’s ruffled feathers. The sleek feeling of Eris’ feathers pressed up against her own folded wings, no matter how brief, made Ikora's heart jump into her throat. She was frozen in place; her face suddenly felt hot.

Eris paid no mind when she flinched.


	2. Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ikora is not fond of thunderstorms, and Eris startles her from her work. A somewhat awkward conversation ensues, as well as a promise.
> 
> The second time in which Eris and Ikora thought they misunderstood one another.

Thunder rumbled in the darkened skies above the Tower. The walls shook, and Ikora shook with them; it was only then that her trance was broken.

Her studies had, once again, taken her deep into the night – or at least it appeared to be so, as the clouds swelled and rolled just beyond the pane at the far side of the room; threatening streaks of lightning flashed forth from the rabid storm, laden with wave after wave of slanted rain with which to batter the Walls. Her sense of time had diminished per the lowered light in the Hall, so if it was not midnight she would not know it, though she did know it was long past the workday’s end.

Her Ghost phased into the room from subspace where she had been resting, and with a slow shutter of her optic, beeped out a warning. Of what, Ikora did not immediately understand, but then lightning flashed and filled the room with light. She blinked, in part because of the sudden and blinding illumination of the Hall, and in part because it almost felt like something had touched her when the darkness fell upon the room through the window once more.

A second’s surprise was evident in her expression as she suddenly found Eris Morn standing next to her, cradling her rock and casting an eerie green circle of light around her. Ikora’s wings had flared out in her shock at seeing her friend appear so randomly, but with minute effort, the Warlock merely pretended to stretch them before folding them carefully at her back again. Her eyes never left Eris’.

“You do not like these conditions.”

Ikora hesitated.

“…I do not find these storms very appealing, no.”

“You enjoy rain.”

“I do. It calms me. But not _this_.”

Eris was silent then, and turned as though she was glancing outside from her place at the table, seemingly examining the sky even though she could not see. A moment went by and Ikora adopted a resting stance, hands folded carefully at the small of her back as she watched Eris stare out into the night. When she turned back to Ikora, her expression seemed softer, somehow – but it was so slight that Ikora could not determine the cause before Eris fluttered her stout, dark wings.

They were a silhouette against the low light, darker than the dark around them, and the glow from the stone Eris carried bounced off of her shimmering feathers beautifully. Ikora would have admired them longer, had Eris not haphazardly folded them against her back again…and had she not caught a glimpse of something fluttering to the floor when Eris stretched.

A soft word of warning tumbled gently from Ikora’s lips as she lifted a hand at waist height with the intention of starting a flame. With a deep inhale, she tapped into her inner fire, the source of Light that rested just beneath her lungs and kept her warm at all hours of the day and night.  Upon her exhale, fire licked at her fingertips, waving about as though tossed by a breeze as Ikora knelt to the floor and plucked a stray feather from it's resting place at Eris’ feet. Rising to her full height again, Ikora held it up curiously, as though Eris could see it as she turned it around to examine it. Thankfully it was not a blood feather, but it was still a bad sign. She snuffed her flames by closing her palm and lowering her hand back to her side.

“You’re losing feathers again.”

Eris was silent for a long moment that seemed to drag on and on, her sightless gaze avoiding Ikora’s own. She knew her friend meant well, and she would accept these good intentions, but she was hesitant. More so than usual. Ikora gave her a short time to think by setting the feather down on the war table after continuing to examine it.

“It has been some time,” Eris began, pausing to stare deep into the orb in her hands, “since we have preened.”

There was a strange force in the last word that made it drop from her mouth like a weight. Ikora merely stared down at Eris and quirked her brow, despite knowing Eris could not see it. It was surprising for Eris to mention such past actions; the thought that there was a motive behind the acknowledgement sent a slight chill down Ikora’s spine.

Or maybe that was just from the temperature dropping in the room, per the storm outside gusting wind down the staircase by the entrance of the Hall, some ways behind her.

Preening was an activity reserved for intimate pairs and Guardians who share a Light Bond, and Ikora was neither of those things to Eris Morn. She had taken care of Eris once, when she had only just returned from the Hellmouth and all others feared her ghastly appearance and mannerisms, and had crossed social boundaries to ensure Eris returned to peak health and physical efficiency in as many ways possible. One of these boundaries was preening.

It was a simple gesture really, but it took at least two to perform: one sat idly while the other sifted through their wings, searching for loose feathers that would fall on their own eventually in order to remove them. It could be embarrassing to lose feathers in public, as it was a sign of poor health or a lack of grooming…and it is certainly difficult to groom one’s own wings; Ikora would know from experience. She was simply glad that she and Zavala were close enough to preen one another without a second thought, much like she had been with Andal as well, once upon a time.

Ikora had taken great care in preening Eris’ wings when she had first begun to grow flight feathers again. There had been plenty of blood feathers that had not survived her first molt, and so they had had to be clipped before they had hurt her – Ikora was glad to do this for her friend; Eris would not have acknowledged it otherwise, and did not trust anyone else to be so close to her at the time. Once the rehabilitation period was complete, however, the preening had stopped, and Eris had begun to care for herself again as Ikora had taught her.

She missed it, though. She missed the feeling of Ikora’s fingers running through her feathers in search of a catch, and the relieving sensation when Ikora gently plucked a bad feather free of her skin – it burned, but only for a second: Ikora had a lovely way of touching her finger to the spot and applying a little heat of her own to ease the prick of pain.

To admit these feelings would be catastrophic, she believed, although she often spoke in riddles and hyperbole, so perhaps the thought of saying such things aloud was regarded in a similar fashion by her trick of a mind. Surely it would not end too poorly; Ikora was her _best friend_ , after all - her _only_ friend. No one else would ever consider doing her such a service, nor did she want them to. She was _okay_ with having only one friend, as long as it was Ikora, and Ikora was the only person she could ever imagine allowing to be so close to her when she was at her most vulnerable.

Perhaps there was a way.

“Some time indeed,” Ikora spoke gently, softly. She remembered preening Eris with fondness, although she never expected to be able to do something of that caliber with her again.

Eris did not speak, so Ikora prompted her once more. “It can be difficult to preen alone.”

“Yes.”

Silence followed. Ikora felt an itch in her own feathers, as though a sort of shockwave traveled through her bones from each wingtip to her spine. She fluttered them in an attempt to dispel it, and while successful, the motion caught Eris’ attention.

“Are you of good health?” It was a question seemingly out of nowhere.

The sky flashed a bright white once again, and Ikora almost expected Eris to be gone when she blinked the light away. There she remained, however, looking up at where she must have assumed Ikora’s face was; the shaded glow of her eyes beneath her blindfold gave away her slight squint.

“…I am well, yes; the Commander keeps my wings in excellent shape.”

“He does.”

That was a strange response from Eris. It was almost melancholy in a way that went far beyond her usual tone. Her head tilted to the side as though she was in thought, and the edges of her mouth turned down slightly, prompting Ikora to mimic her expression, although they maintained silence again for a moment thereafter.

Should she take this a step farther? Ikora was hesitant to suggest they preen again, lest Eris grow uncomfortable with the thought (even though it had seemed like she was pressing for it herself). Eris was known to ignore social taboos, and she was still a stranger to most emotions after her time in the Hellmouth as well. Ikora had been helping her regain empathy by teaching her simple methods of emotional expression, both for her benefit and that of those around her. She still had a long way to go, though, and that is what concerned Ikora now. She did not want to press the boundaries of what Eris knew or felt to be appropriate, assuming she cared.

“Your wings are hurting you.” It was clearly a statement; Ikora knew her friend tended to respond better to assumptions than questions. They were easier to simply affirm or deny, rather than elaborate on, and Eris was not a fan of elaborating. “You’ve got the ache.”

Eris paused and looked down at her orb again, though her stare went beyond it.

“Yes.”

Straightening her shoulders, Ikora felt her feathers fluff with anxiety. With a silent exhale, she steeled herself and let the words flow free:

“I will preen with you, Eris Morn, if you’ll have me.”

Eris did not move for a very long time. Statuesque was barely a fitting term – she seemed so still that Ikora nearly reached out to touch her to draw her back to the present, fearing she would hold her breath a little too long. A flick of one dark wing - though she nearly missed it - rid Ikora of her worries, for the most part. Eris was still, but she was simply thinking deeply.

"I would...” she trailed off into silence, dipping in and out of her thoughts as she chose her wording carefully, “I would appreciate that.”

Ikora smiled, despite the butterflies in her chest making normal breathing a bit more difficult.

“Just say the word, my friend. You know that when you need me, I will always be there. You need only speak my name. We’ll rid you of your ache quickly, just like before. I promise.”

Eris smiled too, because Ikora’s voice was so soothing, and hearing such affirmations only enhanced her calming effect. Even as thunder rolled overhead and Ikora's caring expression faded as she was forced to look over Eris at the storm outside, Eris could not think of anything else but those few words: _I will always be there. I promise_. She stared into her orb with a lopsided smile that felt both foreign and ridiculous; to any outsiders it would have appeared slightly strange or off-putting, but Ikora found it endearing – even a bit _comforting_ , perhaps.

She had always loved to see Eris smile, even if it only happened once in a blue moon. Few things could please her anymore; the Hellmouth had ruined her sense of fun and stripped her of the happy-go-lucky attitude she had once held as a younger Guardian. Ikora did not remember much of Eris before the Moon ripped part of her away, but what she did remember was _good_ , and _gentle_ , and _loving_ , and _kind_.

But it was nothing compared to the sight before her, with Eris staring almost bashfully down at her feet, a twisted smile on her face as that green glow caressed them both in its tiny circle of light. There was something about this moment that made Ikora feel as though it would stand out in her memory for centuries to come, and this time, she knew why.

This moment would stand out among all others because Eris was smiling. And if Eris Morn could still smile, then there was certainly hope for them all.


	3. Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three days of not-quite-dreaming, and a night that is a dream come true. 
> 
> The last time they expected to misunderstand one another, but didn't.

Almost time to turn in. _Almost_. 

It had been three days. Three _long_ days of not-quite-dreaming, three long days since she had even thought of the comfort of her bed - three long days that were starting to get to her. At least, she guessed that’s what the migraine was from, but sleep was still the least of her worries. The voices that lurk at the edge of her mind had been unusually quiet as of late, so anyone else’s guess as to the cause of her pain would be as valid as her own. She didn’t get migraines just from thinking too hard. 

The dying light of the sun crept in through the window far to her right and reflected brightly off of Zavala’s armor. The light streaming in at his back made him into a living shadow; he would have appeared almost statuesque, was he not shifting his weight from side to side in a slow rhythm. The Commander was not one to revel in the end of his shift - none of them were, really; oftentimes the end of one shift led directly and seamlessly into the beginning of another – but even he grew weary of long days such as this one. Cayde was restless as well, but he always was – it was not noteworthy how he flexed and slid his great mechanical feathers against one another in self-soothing, although the chiming sound that resulted was, if only due to the spike of pain driven deeper into her mind by each screeching  _schhling_ of sharp metal-on-metal. Zavala seemed unsurprisingly unperturbed, as little ever bothered him. 

Perhaps her migraine was a result of her lack of rest combined with idle energy. She had no desire to run, train, or fly (she had skipped the morning routine of a run and a spar with her teammates for the last few days), but her Light demanded something of her. Her Ghost merely confirmed it with a gentle beep that seemed to travel up her spine. Some of the metaphysical soundwave reverberated through her skull, while the rest crackled along her aching wings only to feel as though it dispersed outward from the tips as she shook them. 

 _I will rest when I damn well please._ The robotic coo she got in response led her to release the breath she’d been holding. Ikora folded her wings against her robes once more, a scowl now hardening her features. 

_Fine, take some of it then, if you think it will help._

It was a waiting game; as time passed and her Ghost drained away her excess Light, the tension Ikora felt in her shoulders began to lighten and the throbbing pain in her skull eased just enough. She still saw stars if she moved her eyes too quickly, but some of the heat was extinguished – a lovely side effect she was rarely able to experience. She seldom allowed her Ghost to take away the Light that often spilled over her edges, but when she did, it felt far better than she would ever admit. Her little Light knew it, though. They were bonded, after all. 

Grumbling her thanks across their bond for only her Ghost to hear, Ikora, now partially renewed, reached out into the corridor on her left in search of signs of life. Shaxx had left his post early evidently, leaving Arcite to fend off the day’s last straggling Crucible-goers seeking reward, and the civilians that often wandered in and out of the Hall were long gone. The whirlpool of cool energy that Shaxx cast into the space around him had followed him home, leaving remnants of Light that fluttered about as mere dust particles swirling in a negative sunbeam. It was dark in the Hall without him. 

It was dark, and to reach out with her mind and touch the coolness of it soothed Ikora in a way similar to Cayde’s metallic clinks and Zavala’s rhythmic shifting. The cold was a promise of rest, should she finally allow exhaustion to overcome her. With any luck, a gentle rain would roll in overnight to keep her thoughts at bay, lull her into a deep sleep, and hold her there. Light knows she’s earned a good rest, and the clouds have been brewing all day. 

The time for their dayshift to end came rather quickly. The speed with which Cayde packed up and flew out was expected, although Zavala’s eagerness remained an anomaly, albeit one Ikora was not willing to dissect at the time. If he felt the need to rush home, then fine, she would meet him there. Solitude would likely suit her better; day after day after day of Light, and Light, and Light was exhausting. If she didn’t have to feel the brushing of hers with another’s, hell, if she didn’t have to set eyes on another Guardian all night, she would be overjoyed. 

Zavala’s gentle hand on her shoulder returned her attention to the dancing, dying sunlight, the ache in her spine, and the now empty Hall of Guardians. 

“Tonight, you _rest_.” He spoke sternly, yet maintained a softness that was largely unseen by anyone else. He reserved that tone of voice only for her – most often when he was ready to intervene in streaks of her worst habits, like giving in to insomnia. 

“You are no Commander of mine,” Ikora turned her head to meet his eyes, and quickly lost the fight against a tired smile, “ _sir_.” 

Fondness welled up inside her at the sight of his smile. “When you’re ready, then.” 

As Zavala moved behind her and toward the steps leading out of the room, he flicked out a wing and allowed the pale blue tips of his feathers to drag across Ikora’s half-folded wings in a sign of affection: A reminder of how deep his care for her goes. She responded with a simple flash of her own feathers against his shoulder as he passed, which did nothing but earn her a parting glance over his shoulder, his brow furrowed and smile knowing. She did not look up to meet his eyes. 

Time went on and Ikora began to loosen her grip on awareness. Her surroundings became less important – she spent every day (and many nights) in this Hall; she knew every inch of it by heart – and her attention to her thoughts became more so. She reached out again into the dark of the Hall, searching for something – someone. She recalled that she had promised Eris she would save the date, but her friend did not stand in her usual alcove between the stairs at the far end of the corridor. She had not been sent into the field, however, though she was known to leave on her own now and then. It was…concerning at times, but Ikora trusted Eris wholly. She liked to think Eris trusted her just as well, so there was no reason to worry but for Eris’ safety. She posed no danger to Ikora, but everything beyond the Tower (and some things within it) posed danger to Eris. _Concerning indeed._  

It was as though she was summoned by the thought. Ikora, for once, did not notice that her friend had entered the room: She wasn’t paying attention to Light signatures - her head hurt too badly. Beyond that, Eris always walked softly and Ikora’s hearing was not what it used to be. So it startled her when Eris reached out a little gloved hand and touched hers for a moment. 

Ikora started, eyes wide and glowing with panicked fire before they settled on Eris’ mild expression. The little Hunter raised her hands halfheartedly as though to trivialize her own identity. Green eyes had squinted in Ikora’s direction as her Light had flared; as Ikora calmed herself and fluffed her feathers in embarrassment of her near-outburst, Eris squeezed her eyes shut in several rapid blinks as though to rid herself of the images of curling fire seared onto her eyelids. 

“…I’m sorry, Eris, I--” 

“You did not know.” 

They remained quiet for a moment as Ikora examined her friend, her gaze tired and apologetic as Eris shuffled in place. Eventually, she looked back up at Ikora and tilted her head slightly. 

“You’re still here.” 

The implications of that statement encompassed a thousand different meanings. It was a question as well as an answer, and held concern as well as some faint scolding. There was no proper response, as everything would be both wrong and right at once. 

“I am.” 

“You should be home.” 

“I was going to look for you.” 

Eris hesitated then, and looked back down at her feet. Surely she had not forgotten they were meant to preen again tonight? They’d gone longer without it than they had meant to; almost a week without the soft feeling of Eris’ feathers between Ikora’s fingers was too long, though she would keep the thought to herself. Simply spending time with Eris was enough, but she preferred to do so outside of work. Work didn’t usually involve such intimacies. 

“So you were.” 

"You do still want to--” 

“Yes.” 

It was sharp. Eris rarely cut into Ikora’s words, particularly when they were alone or discussing anything less than the apocalypse. There was urgency there, but why? The question came to light in the tilt of Ikora’s head and her slow blink. Eris didn’t seem keen on adding anything to lighten the harshness of her answer. 

"...Whenever you're ready, then." 

An odd moment of stillness passed between them. On any average night, Eris would stalk off into the darkened corridor with the assumption that Ikora will follow (and she always did). She would step quietly behind her friend as she glided just outside the reach of each dimmed light as though she barely touched the ground. There was poetry in the sleekness of Eris' movements, as though each was incredibly deliberate. They had to be; were conditioned to be - Ikora knew this quite personally. She had spent her own time dangerously alone among fearsome enemies. But there was still beauty to be found in the visual process of getting from one place to another, at least when watching Eris. This dark Hunter was a living performance art. She depicted survival at all costs every waking moment. 

But this was, evidently, not an average night. She did not immediately know why it wasn't, but the realization forced Ikora to focus again. Eris was rooted in place, her sightless eyes turned downward. Her lips had curled from a resting frown into a much deeper one. She was thinking, or perhaps something was bothering her. Whatever it was would find it's way forward if any she had any intention of seeking counsel. A moment went by, however, and things seemed a bit too still. 

Ikora stretched her wings out behind her. The pointed tips of her feathers reached out and upwards on either side of her; the bones beneath shook slightly under their own weight - a reflection of Ikora's accentuated exhaustion. Eris' gaze sharply rose to look at the soft glow branching out from Ikora's center-fire, seemingly snapped out of whatever thoughts were plaguing her to study the soft wavering of Light that only she could see. With a gentle sigh, she watched as Ikora began to fold them against her robes once more, though the motion stopped midway when the longing of her stare was noticed. Ikora merely looked down at her friend, blinked, and didn't quite understand. Wings half-folded and brow furrowed, she paused for a moment. It would be difficult to see the color coming to her cheeks, thankfully.  

"Eris." 

A weighted name on a good day. 

Without any indication of what she was about to do, Eris leaned forward and stretched out her gloved hand towards Ikora, brushing past her arm to find her left wing. Ikora could not react in time: All she managed was a sharp inhale, and then...a long, relieved sigh when Eris' leather-bound fingers buried themselves in her feathers. She stepped forward to close most of the distance between them so that Eris did not have to strain herself to reach her wings. Ikora's face twisted in a moment of shame – the Halls had cameras rolling at all hours for security purposes – but she soon forced herself to relax. She had been hoping, praying, waiting for this.  

She curled her wings around her sides in an invitation – one that Eris took with surprising eagerness. With her right hand still running through the feathers on Ikora's left wing, Eris reached out her free hand to caress the outside of Ikora's right wing as well, feeling the smooth, scale-like pattern in which each feather overlapped. This was only possibly with her gauntlets on because Ikora's feathers were just ruffled enough to accentuate the overlap as she fluffed up with anxiety (and perhaps a little excitement).  

Ikora had squeezed her eyes shut, too nervous to look at Eris but enjoying this too much to focus on anything but the feeling of being touched in such an intimate way. After a moment, though, she steeled herself, opened her eyes, and stared down at Eris directly, her eyes like burning embers.  

She raised one hand, and with a soft exhale, dared to ask: "May I...?" 

The answer came after a ragged breath: " _Yes_." 

So she did. She reached around Eris and ran her hands over the back of her wings, rounded against her back. After repeating the motion, it took courage, but Ikora gently slipped her fingers under her friend's wings as if to say  _let me see them, please_. Of course, Eris obliged all too happily. 

Ikora had done this before. Many, many times. With passion, and purpose. She knew how to stroke a woman's wings to rile her up, but this time, she thought she sought the opposite.

With slow movements, she dragged her fingers along the tops of Eris' wings, riding the crest from their base at her shoulder blades until they sloped down towards the primaries, then slipping her hands onto the insides and arching her fingers to slip between feathers, prompting a sweet little noise from Eris (who, from her ache, was likely more sensitive than most). 

It then truly struck Ikora: This was not preening, or even the start of it. This was something else.  

She recoiled, gently, at the thought. Looking down at Eris' face to see all three glowing eyes shut tight, Ikora whispered her name in hopes of getting her to focus again.  

"Eris." 

Eris slowly opened her eyes and looked up, eyebrows stitched tightly together. She let out a slow, heavy exhale as she blinked.  

"I love you, Eris." It took everything Ikora had not to choke on the words like she had so many times before.  

"You...you do." 

"I do. I  _love_ you, Eris Morn." 

The two fell silent for a few long moments, both still with their hands tangled in the other's feathers. Neither made a move to change that.  

"I...I am glad." 

Ikora smiled. She knew what that meant. Her heart fluttered in her chest as though it had wings of its own. She had been waiting. 

And oh was it worth it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoooo man this is long overdue! i'm really sorry for the wait! some stuff happened, and when i got a new computer i...lost my key to activate microsoft office...so i couldnt access any of my word files for a long time. but i found a work around, and got to finish up this draft finally! 
> 
> a big thanks to those of you who left comments on the last two chapters encouraging me in the meantime; it means so much and was a big part of the reason why i sat down and did it! and to those who read and reread, thank you, genuinely. knowing my writing is read and liked is a huge part of why i write, so thank you so much for the affirmations. 
> 
> don't forget to tell me what you like, want to see more of, and what you think overall! your insight is valuable to me and i love hearing your ideas and thoughts! thanks again guys! i'll see you on my next fic i hope! :P


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